Chapter 14 Chapter Fourteen

When Jackson appeared in the narrow passage, the crowd had already gathered in the street. To Jackson, those people were like vomit floating on the Harlem River.His overcoat was torn, the buttons were missing, the cuffs were ripped open, and there was black feces all over him, dripping with dirty sludge.With a swollen mouth and red eyes, he seemed half dead. Others don't look much better than Jackson.The sound of gunfire and the screeching siren of the patrol car had already made them jump out of bed excitedly, wanting to see what happened.It sounded like there had been a violent shootout, and getting mugged or knifed to death was a major event in Harlem.

Men, women, and children on the street came rushing over. Some of them were wearing two or three coats, some were wrapped in blankets, their pajama pants were exposed outside their rubber overshoes, and towels were tied on their heads. The dusty rug that he picked up was also wrapped around his body. Compared with these ghosts, Jackson seemed elegant. Most of them are huddling around the edge of the cordon.The entrance to the trail on the other side of the church has been blocked. They went back to the shed where the shooting took place, stood on tiptoes, stretched their necks, and some even rode on the backs of others, trying to figure out what happened.

Only a black cocoon-like man saw Jackson crawling out of the hole. This man was covered with a dirty brown blanket. Two police officers became suspicious of Jackson, but just as they were about to question him, a fist fight broke out in another group.They hurried to join the police team over there.Seeing this, Jackson quickly followed into the crowd. "Let the niggers go," he heard someone say. "When one person does it, everyone wants to do it," others said. "Anyway, in Harlem, everybody's a thug with two guns. All they want is some horses and cows to make targets for, so they'll be more aggressive."

Jackson couldn't see the fighters, but he continued to move toward the center of the crowd, trying to hide inside.One looked at him and said, "You funny guy, want to fight too? Who are you fighting for, shorty, your old woman?" Someone laughed. Jackson noticed a policeman watching him, and he moved in the other direction. "Hey, man, they killed a cop." A voice said, "Really." When the mob heard the news, they quickly retreated outside the security circle, and the fighting seemed to subside. "Is it a white cop?" "Yes, man." "They're a bunch of dumb flies over Harlem."

"Don't say that." Jackson had moved to the edge of the crowd and found himself face-to-face with the two policemen who had noticed him in the first place. "Hey, it's you!..." one of the policemen shouted. Jackson immediately rushed back into the crowd, the two policemen closely following behind him. Suddenly the roar of several mad dogs attracted people's attention. It sounded like a pack of wolves fighting for a corpse. "Hey, man, look there! . . . " someone yelled. The crowd moved in the direction of the dog fight, and Jackson was able to escape the police officers who were chasing him.

Jackson fled down the path on the other side of the church. Right in front of them, two huge dogs were fighting fiercely, biting and growling, a big fight.One was a German pinscher the size of a wolf, the other a Dane the size of a Glen Islands pony.They were owned by two pimps; the pimps had let them out around the time of the shootout. The two pimps had to let them out two or three times a night. Their apartment was so small that they had to keep the dogs on a leash, but the barking noise kept them from sleeping, so he let them go. Unchain them and let them out. Those two dogs were really vicious enough, and they started fighting as soon as they met.

They rolled over on the sidewalk and in and out of the slums, their rows of fangs gleaming like knives in the dim yellow light.People dispersed as the dog rolled close to the crowd. "I'll bet five dollars on the black dog to knock out his opponent," said one. "Who bet with you!..." Another person replied, "I bet the black dog can win anytime." The police temporarily forgot about Jackson and turned to get the two dogs.With their guns drawn, they approached the dog cautiously. "Sir, please don't shoot my dog," pleaded a pimp. "They won't hurt anyone," another pimp added.

The policeman hesitated for a moment. "Why don't you put masks on your dogs?" a policeman asked. "They were on," one pimp lied, "but fell off during a fight." "Only by shooting can we separate them." A bystander suggested. "Those dogs should be shot," someone responded. "Who has a newspaper?" asked the first pimp. Someone ran to the side of the road, where a garbage truck was parked.It was a scrap wagon, its sides wrapped in cardboard, the horses pulling it were lame and blind, and the wheels had worn out into ovals.

The guy took some newspapers out of the car, and the trash collectors joined the onlookers. After the man took a newspaper from the pile of garbage, he hurried back.He folded the newspaper into the shape of a torch, and others helped to light it, and threw it at the two dogs.Through the brief firelight, the German pinscher's fangs bit the Dane's throat. The police used the handle of the gun as a club and beat the German pinscher on the head severely. "God, don't kill my dog." The pimp sobbed. Jackson saw the garbage wagon, went over to it, climbed in, grabbed the frayed reins with both hands, and shouted to the horse, "Run."

The horse straightened its scabbed neck and turned to face Jackson.It didn't recognize the voice, and it couldn't see Jackson. "Run!..." Jackson shouted again, picked up the rope and lashed at the horse's belly.The horse straightened its neck and began to walk, but the movement was slow, like the slow motion of a movie, and each step seemed to be walking in the clouds. A policeman, whom Jackson hadn't seen, motioned for him to stop. "Do you live here?" "No, I just drove over." Jackson answered him in dialect, trying to convince the police that he was a scavenger.

The policeman had no doubts about this, he just asked routinely. "Did you see any suspicious people passing by?" "He just drove here," said a passer-by who had seen Jackson near the building. "I've seen him." It was Harlem's unspoken rule that a black man would lie to a white police officer in order to help another black brother. "Shut up, nigger, I didn't ask you," said the white policeman sternly. "I didn't see anyone," Jackson said. "I was just minding my own business and not paying attention to anyone else." "Who hurt your mouth?" "Two guys tried to rob me. It always happens after dark." The police were outraged, and he always felt offended by interrogating black people. "Let me see your papers," he demanded. "Okay, sir." Jackson began to touch his coat pockets one by one, "It's obviously here." Another officer suddenly appeared and shouted at the officer. "What are you doing with that man?" "I'm just asking him." The police officer who just arrived glanced at Jackson. "Let him go, come here and help guard the entrance here." He pointed to the passage through which Jackson escaped, "We need to find a place to corner him, and he may pass through here." "Yes, sir." The policeman went to guard the exit. Jackson's black friend winked at him. "That guy's gone, isn't he?" Jackson just looked at the man, and he didn't have a chance to blink. "Drive!..." Jackson yelled at the horse, and continued to whip the horse's belly with the rein.The old horse was unmoved by Jackson's whipping, and continued to walk slowly. At the same time, the junk picker poked his head over the crowd to see if his car was still there.He couldn't believe that Jackson was driving his carriage. "Hey, man, that's my carriage." The old man was dressed in rags, and the old horse blanket was thrown loosely over him like a shawl.A black woolen sweater was tightly wrapped around his head, like a Muslim turban, and a dirty bonnet was buttoned on it. The curly white hair protruding from the "Muslim turban" and the dirty white beard on the chin are all connected together, stained with dust and tobacco juice, and a wrinkled black face is faintly visible, and A pair of puffy old eyes.His shoes were tied tightly with sack cord.At first glance it looked like Uncle Tom in Harlem. ①Uncle Tom is the protagonist in the novel "Uncle Tom's Cabin" published by the American writer Mrs. Harriet Beecher Stowe in 1852. Uncle Tom is a black man who is obedient, stoic and loyal to his white masters. slave. "Uncle Tom's Cabin" was translated by Lin Shu to China in the late Qing Dynasty. It is the earliest Western novel translated in China and aroused repercussions. "Hey! . . . Stop, you boy! . . . " he yelled at Jackson. "You stole my carriage." Jackson whipped the horse's rump hard, trying to make it go faster, and the pickers ran after him.Both the horse and the pursuers ran so slowly that Jackson even felt that the whole world was crawling. "Hey, he stole my carriage," said the junk picker to a nearby policeman.The policeman looked Jackson up and down. "You stole this guy's carriage?" "That's not the case. He's my father, but he didn't recognize me." The rag picker grabbed the policeman's sleeve tightly and said excitedly, "You bastard, I'm not your father. I read that right, you stole my carriage." "Dad, you're drunk." Jackson said with a smile. The policeman bent down, sniffed the scent of the rag-picker, quickly stepped back and exhaled, and shouted, "Ouch." "Dad, get in the car." Jackson passed over the policeman's head and blinked at the trash picker. The junk pickers knew the rule—Jackson wanted to get out of here, and was asking him for help. He didn't intend to report a black brother to the white police, so he changed his words and said, "Oh, so it's you, my son." He climbed into the car and sat beside Jackson as he spoke. The trash picker took out a dirty plug of chewing tobacco from his coat pocket, blew off the residue, chewed it relaxedly, and handed it to Jackson.Jackson refused, and the junk picker put the plug back in his pocket, picked up the rein and shook it lightly, yelling resentfully: "Go, Jupiter!  …" ① Jupiter, the name of the Romans for the king of the gods, that is, God, is transformed from "Zeus" (Zeus) in Greek mythology, the main god in Roman mythology. Every corner of the street is full of patrol cars, and the pace of "Jupiter" is like walking in space, freely shuttling through it. Along the street in the distance, the private cars of the residents here are parked, and there are still cars coming here, and the nosy people are accumulating more and more.The news that a white policeman had been killed exploded like a bolt of lightning throughout Harlem. The junkman waited until he was past the fifth block before speaking, and asked Jackson, "Did you do it?" "what?" "Killed the policeman?" "I didn't do anything." "Then why are you running away?" "I just don't want to get caught." Trash pickers know what he means.In Harlem, black people don't want to be caught by the police, whether they've done anything or not. "I don't want to either." The old man picking up trash muttered.He spat the tobacco juice out into the street and wiped his mouth with the back of his dirty cotton glove. "Do you have a dollar?" Jackson took out his money roll, pulled out a one-dollar bill, and handed it to the junk picker.The junk picker took a good look, then rolled it up and hid it under his barely-covering clothes. At this time, the carriage had reached 142nd Street, and stopped in front of the house where Jackson and Imabella once lived. The trash pickers got out of the car and walked towards a garbage dump. This is the first time Jackson thought of Imabella since he escaped.His heart began to beat faster, and his mouth opened wide. "Hey! . . . " he cried, "can you take me to 121st Street?" The trash picker looked at him holding a pile of trash. "Can you give me another dollar?" said the old man. Jackson drew another bill.The junkman threw the rubbish in the back of the wagon, climbed back to hide the bills, and shook the reins.The horse started to walk forward. Along the way, both of them fell into silence. Jackson felt like he was at the bottom of a pit.He has been clubbed, knifed, gunfighted, skinned and humiliated.The gunshot wound in the head was bandaged, but the skull still ached like John Henry driving a chariot; when he breathed, his bruised lips beat like a drum. ①A black hero in American folklore. Jackson didn't know if Goldie had found Imabella, if she had been arrested, or even if she was alive or dead.He didn't know how to live in the future, but it didn't matter. Jackson was just here, driving a garbage wagon, and didn't know anything else.All he knew was that at this moment, his woman was still alive or dead.Now that the gang knew the police were looking for them, they would probably take Imabella's gold ore with them and fly away.But as long as they don't hurt Imabella, he doesn't care about anything. His overcoat was soaked by the sewage splashed by the car, and the sweat on his body soaked his underwear again.Everything made him feel cold.He was shaking with cold and anxiety, unable to do anything. Negroes walked the dim sidewalks, stealthily prowling the dangerous darkness like children in trouble. "Neggers and trouble," Jackson thought, "like two mules pulling the same wagon side by side." "Are you cold?" the trash picker asked Jackson. "It doesn't feel hot anyway." "Want to drink?" the old man said with a smile. "Where is it?" The old man picking up rags took out a bottle of wine from his rags. "Can you give me another dollar?" Jackson took out another dollar, handed it to the old man who picked up the rags, picked up the bottle and poured it into his mouth.The teeth made the mouth of the bottle creak, the wine burned his throat, and rushed into his stomach like a fireball, but none of these could make him feel better. Jackson returned the remaining half of the wine bottle to the old guy who picked up the tatters. "Do you have a woman?" asked the ragpicker. "There's one," said Jackson sadly, "but I don't know where she is." The trash picker glanced at Jackson, then at the bottle, and handed it back to Jackson. "You take it," he said, "you seem to need it more than I do."